


Jack O' Lanterns Before Midnight

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Family Bonding, Gen, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Of scalpels and basements, Trick or Treating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Trick-or-treating is never a dull affair.





	Jack O' Lanterns Before Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for this idea belongs to my dearest Tempest; to be considered a side dish to "House of Rogues". Happy Halloween!

Despite Gotham’s customary tradition of being – as Harvey Bullock so eloquently says – an ice-blooded broad in the late fall (and throughout winter), Halloween night descends on the city with a comfortable chill in the air. For those who are so-inclined, there will be no need for five extra layers on top of the desired costumes; it’s just enough to be, in every sense of the word, a solid autumn evening.

A military man at his core, punctuality is Jim Gordon’s second nature (and some would argue it even qualifies as his only true nature); when, in a prior conversation, he mentions he will be arriving ‘somewhere between six and seven o’clock,’ it translates to his arrival precisely as the grandfather clock in the front hall chimes the six o’clock hour. Fresh off his shift, his recent preference for black suits is befitting most especially on All Hallows Eve.

Butch Gilzean answers the door, dressed in black pinstripe with a stripe of orange down his front. “Captain Gordon,” he says cheerfully; around his waist is a white apron faintly smeared with flour, “c’mon in.”

Jim offers a short but sincere greeting and steps into the warmth of DeLaine Manor; the foyer is lit up with orange and black candles, and the air filled with the aroma of dinner. “Can I offer you a drink?” Butch asks, closing the door, and gestures for the precinct captain to follow him into the kitchen.

“Not now.” Jim shakes his head, rubbing his hands together, “Might need it after we get back though. Is she ready?”

“Putting the final touches together.” The large man grins, “She’s her mother’s kid – perfectionist to the core.”

No truer words have been spoken. “What’s on the menu tonight?” he asks; the aroma is sending rather pointed signals to his belly, along with a reminder that he hasn’t eaten anything today beyond a food-truck hot dog on his way to an afternoon meeting.

“I’m pulling out all the stops for the boss’ birthday.” Butch proudly declares; with one hand, he gestures around the kitchen, “Steaks, hot rolls with butter, salad, grilled shrimp, and steamed vegetables. And in there,” he points to the oven, “I convinced Mrs. K. to hand over her secret recipe for baklava.”

Jim nods, duly impressed. “She’ll love it.”

“Grandpa! Grandpa, are you here?!”

“In the front hall, Celeste.” Jim answers the summons, stepping out to face the staircase. “Ready when you are.”

In the time it takes him to blink, she appears and presents herself for his appraisal: dressed head-to-toe in black, an ensemble tailored for her young frame, with her golden locks intricately braided and the sleek leather of what must be the smallest gun holster ever seen fastened securely across her chest.

“You look…” for a moment, Jim gropes for the right word; ‘adorable’ certainly doesn’t meet the criteria, but a paltry ‘very nice’ will never suffice for his granddaughter’s self-image, “…quite striking.”

She beams and hugs him tightly. To his relief, there are no actual guns inside the holster. At least Victor possesses the decency to not send his eight-year-old daughter out on Halloween night armed for the infantry.

“Alright, let’s go, let’s go!” she’s tugging at his hand and taking full strides toward the front door, “Mama and Daddy will be home in an hour – we can’t be late!”

“I’m going…I’m going…” Jim manages a brief farewell wave to Butch, who gives him a ‘Good Luck’ grin and brief salute before returning to his culinary masterpieces.

***

The first house on the route is a cozy redbrick, the first of several in a stretch; Jim prefers to keep the evening’s activities strictly in the suburbs north of downtown, where the residents are mostly retired elders or recently empty-nesters. It is inevitable, of course, that they will encounter other costumed youth at some point, but the less of that to occur, the better. There have been…incidents in the past couple years.

“Now remember, sweetheart,” Jim says, smile mildly forced as he recalls the last time they walked up the pumpkin-lined drive, “no more questions – even if they are in the name of furthering scientific awareness – about Mr. Pollard’s herniated disk.”

“I promise, Grandpa.” She answers, utterly unbothered by the restriction; Jim can only assume she must have gotten into Nygma’s medical texts to answer what Mr. Pollard was less-than-thrilled to answer.

For the most part, the adults don’t have much issue with Celeste; her chosen costume tends to earn a double-take as soon as they answer the door, but the older women usually just smile and make a cheery comment on the ‘creative imaginations of youth’, hand over the candy, and it’s on to the next house. At least this year, her outfit isn’t getting as many looks as the year she dressed up as a miniature version of ‘Uncle’ Oswald.

Granted, she looked adorable, and her hair eventually grew back. But there was no living with Oswald and his preening ego after that display.

“What an adorable outfit, dear girl.” Mrs. Clark, retired schoolteacher and famously-forgiving soul (Jim had to convince her two years in a row to call about the kids who egged her front door – and stop his five-year-old granddaughter from proposing ‘alternative forms of punishment’ for the young culprits), tips a handful into Celeste’s leather satchel, “Is that real leather?”

“Yes, it is!” Celeste says happily, “It isn’t a perfect replica though; Daddy says I can’t use guns until I’m twelve.”

“Oh, I see…” Mrs. Clark says, clearly considering her answer while Jim stands a distance away with face in his palm, “Well, your daddy is a very caring and wise man.”

“Yes, he is.” She nods, “And there’s no one more qualified to teach me how to use a gun!”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jim says, managing a grin for the old teacher’s sake, and steers Celeste away with both hands on her thin shoulders, “we still have a lot of houses to hit, and the hour’s ticking away. Have a good night, Mrs. Clark.”

***

The remaining minutes of their allotted time pass without much in the way of further incident – though Jim makes a mental note to skip Old Man Farland’s house after he and Celeste get into an impassioned argument about young ladies wearing trousers. Last stop on the route is Dr. Martin, a well-known surgeon (and former medical examiner in an upstate morgue) in the area; Jim has had friendly dealings with him in the past, but never on the Halloween route. Usually, the doctor is covering late shifts at the hospital.

When, that is, he isn’t a guest lecturer at the university.

“Oh, I remember your mother _so_ well.” He chuckles, handing an extra candy bar for the now-bulging satchel, “The only student I’ve ever encountered who sat through the autopsy video and didn’t make a run for the trash bin.”

If Jim’s memory serves correctly, Iris didn’t just sit through the whole video, but took notes and used said notes to argue against several of Dr. Guerra’s findings at the precinct. “Will you be following in her footsteps, then?” the doctor adds, “It would tickle me pink to have taught mother _and_ daughter before I meet my maker.”

“Of course!” she says it as though any contrary thoughts are absolutely ludicrous, “Mama really enjoyed your lecture, Doctor…and Daddy’s already taught me how to use a scalpel!”

Next year, Jim silently avows, someone else is taking this child trick-or-treating.

***

“Happy Birthday, Mama!”

Iris catches Celeste mid-leap and pulls her into a tight embrace. “My darling _ange_ …” she kisses the golden head tucked under her chin, “did you have a wonderful time with Grandpa?”

“Oh yes!” she nods and hefts the satchel overhead to set down on the floor; tomorrow, she’ll take it to the local shelter to be distributed accordingly. Neither mother nor daughter have much of a taste for candy, but it takes too much time to explain that little detail, and the shelter owners always seem to appreciate the yearly donation. “Oh! And Dr. Martin sends his regards. He says you were the best student he ever taught.”

“A title you’ll soon claim for yourself.” Iris kisses her forehead, then both cheeks, “Especially with all those lessons your father is giving you in the basement.”

“Where is Daddy?” a tiny frown puckers her eyebrows, “He was going to show me how to carve a jack-o-lantern tonight.”

From the basement, an unearthly wail vibrates through a closed door. Iris blinks, then smiles down at her daughter, “He won’t be long.”


End file.
